


His Master's Voice

by Castiron



Category: Lord Darcy Series - Randall Garrett
Genre: Case Fic, Gen, Prequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-22
Updated: 2011-12-22
Packaged: 2017-10-27 18:31:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/298772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Castiron/pseuds/Castiron
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lord Darcy is called in to investigate a mysterious apparition that has appeared since the death of Charles de Beaufort, Baron Dartmoor, and that may signal a threat to the new baron.</p>
            </blockquote>





	His Master's Voice

**Author's Note:**

  * For [VelvetMouse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/VelvetMouse/gifts).



Lord Darcy would never have been involved with the case if he had not gone to visit an old friend of his father's in Exeter in the autumn of 1952. After a pleasant dinner with the retired major, he returned to the hotel to find a messenger wearing the livery of the Marquis of Exeter. "My lord," said the messenger, "the Marquis sends his greetings and asks if you would be willing to meet with him as soon as possible about a serious matter."

"Certainly," Lord Darcy replied, putting his cloak back on. "I am at the Marquis's service."

The Marquis of Exeter was a young man, a few years younger even than Lord Darcy, but he had succeeded to his title ten years ago and had proven to be a highly competent administrator. Lord Darcy had met him on other occasions and found him a calm man, but tonight he showed the faintest hints of agitation.

"It's my Chief Investigator, Sir Gerald Caprice, and his first assistant," the Marquis said. "The Prussian Influenza has hit Devonshire, and Sir Gerald and Lord Houston were so busy with an investigation that they didn't visit a Healer at the first symptoms."

"I understand." Epidemics were rare in the Anglo-French Empire. Ever since St. Hilary Robert of Walsingham had formulated the scientific laws of magic, the efforts of the Church's Healers usually sufficed to halt the spread of illness. But occasionally a disease was so contagious that it would spread faster than the Healers could cure, and of course Healers could only lay hands on people who came to them for help.

"They've been treated since, of course, but it'll be several days before they can work, and I need an investigator now. While I would be sorry to deprive you of your hard-earned leisure time, your performance on behalf of the young Duke of Normandy has been admirable, and if you would be willing to provide your assistance at least until Sir Gerald has recovered, it would be a great service. You will, of course, be compensated from my Privy Purse."

Lord Darcy nodded. "'The Empire expects every man to do his duty.' How may I aid you?"

"You had heard, of course, of the death of Charles de Beaufort, Baron Dartmoor?"

"Certainly. At the beginning of March he was found dead on his Devon estate, apparently due to a fall from a rock outcropping."

"As best as we could tell, yes." The qualification told Lord Darcy that someone, likely Sir Gerald, had not been entirely satisfied with the conclusion, but there had been insufficient evidence to indicate any other cause. "The baron's heir is a cousin, Michael de Beaufort, who has been living with his grandmother in the middle coast of New England; the new Baron and his sister recently arrived in England but have not yet been to the estate, going first to London for the baron be formally invested by the King. They will come to Dartmoor Castle tomorrow, and I am concerned.... I fear there is danger."

"And what evidence has you concerned for the new Baron's safety?"

The Marquis hesitated. "It sounds ridiculous, but.... Several people have reported seeing a large spectral beast that speaks in the dead Baron's voice."

Lord Darcy raised his eyebrows. "A ghost or demon?"

"We considered the possibility, but neither the local sorceror nor the local priest have found the magical traces that would accompany such an apparition. Not that many of the local citizenry believe that; since the old baron's death, the barony has been in some disarray."

"Naturally. With the heir in New England, it would have taken some time to inform him of his new status. We cannot send teleson messages across the Channel or the Irish Sea, let alone across the Atlantic."

"So," the Marquis continued, "I would very much like for you to visit the baronial castle, interview the staff and some of the locals, and if possible stay with the baron until Sir Gerald can take over. There will be a dinner at the castle to welcome the new baron tomorrow night, so your presence as a substitute for Sir Gerald will not cause comment."

"Of course. The Marquis of Rouen did not expect me back before next Thursday, and I will write to let him know I may be delayed longer. Is it possible for me to interview Sir Gerald?"

"Not at this time; Father Paul says that he must rest undisturbed for at least another day. But I have his notes if you would like to read them."

"I would appreciate that. Also, my colleague Master Sean O Lochlainn should arrive in Exeter tomorrow to meet with me. Since magic may be involved, may I have your leave to include him on this investigation?"

"Of course. I'll send the message to go on the next boat; I understand that he's currently in Cork?"

"Yes, visiting his family. Thank you, my lord Marquis."

He read the notes that evening. On the night of his death, the baron had dined at the local schoolmaster's house; he had refused to send for a carriage and left on foot, saying that the night was clear. The next morning, he had been found at the base of a large rock outcropping, his neck broken. The rock's edge showed no footprints, but on a path nearby, there were signs of running steps that matched the baron's feet.

Lord Darcy sat back and considered the data, then wrote the message to be forwarded to Rouen.

* * *

Lord Darcy travelled out to the castle the following morning, and in the evening found himself at the baron's table.

Michael de Beaufort, the new Baron Dartmoor, was a short and slender young man in his late twenties, looking hardly sturdy enough to bear the weight of government. But his speech, though laden with the accent of New England, was firm and enthusiastic, and he was full of plans for the barony. Throughout dinner he talked of farming, of the rare plants that might be of use for sorcerors, of sheep and goats and a strange camelid from New France that might prosper after the lands were improved.

His younger sister Mary was a lovely woman, with long honey-colored hair and a shapely figure. Though her evening gown was a bright crimson that complemented her coloring, she wore the light blue ribbons on one shoulder that declared her an apprentice in sorcery. She carried hardly a trace of the colonial accent, having spent two years at school in London, and only revealed it when speaking to her brother.

The old baron's friend Sir Jeremiah de Haut-Clocher, the local schoolmaster, sat at the foot of the table; he was a man in his early forties, dark-haired and pale-eyed, and was enthusiastic about geology, discussing rocks with everyone who would listen. His much younger wife, Lady de Haut-Clocher, was a thin blond woman; she was mostly quiet but occasionally joined the conversation, especially when it turned to botany.

The local priest, Father David Castle, and sorceror, Master Henry Lamar, were seated near Master Sean, who had arrived at the castle shortly before dinner; the three were soon in a lively debate about an abstruse use of symbolic magic.

Lord Darcy turned to Damoselle Mary, who sat on his right. "You do not join the discussion, my lady?"

"The higher symmetries are beyond my skill yet, my lord. And my training is stronger in perception than in experimentation; I studied for several years with Mother Eloise LeMaitre."

Master Sean's attention was immediately grabbed. "Mother Eloise? She's one of the most powerful Sensitives who ever lived. A pity she's in a contemplative order; she would have been a brilliant criminal investigator."

"I've always wondered," said Master Henry, "what draws people to forensic sorcery. The weather magics, healing, clairvoyance -- those I can understand. But crime and death? How do you endure the aftermath of evil deeds, day after day after day, without breaking your own soul?"

Master Sean drained half his glass of wine before responding. "I can't speak for all my colleagues, of course, but for me, it's the satisfaction of justice. The challenge of the work is the same for us as for any sorceror; the rewards? When I know that the information I gathered by my spells helped convict the true murderer or exonerate the innocent? It's God's work we do, that I believe."

"It must be difficult, though," said Lady de Haut-Clocher, "seeing murdered people so often."

"I served in the War of '39, as did Lord Darcy." He politely left the sentence unfinished, though Lord Darcy's mind automatically filled in the rest -- _what we see now is rarely as bad as what we saw then_.

Lord Darcy said to Master Henry. "You yourself are gifted in the prediction of the weather, I understand."

"I have some skill at it, yes, which is fortunate considering how often the fogs rise here...."

The conversation shifted to less fraught topics and continued for some time before the party broke up.

Back at the inn, Lord Darcy said to Master Sean, "I was sorry to hear about your grandfather. Your family is otherwise well, I hope?"

"They are, thank you. It's a sad thing, but he never was the same after my grandmother's death, and a Healer can do nothing for a man who's ready to die." Master Sean leaned back in his chair. "So tell me, me lord, what are we looking for?"

"Any threat to the new Baron. Which is, I agree, a vague and unhelpful request, but until Sir Gerald recovers, we must do our best. It is clear, though, that Sir Gerald found the old baron's death suspicious, and that almost certainly means there's something worth investigating."

There was a knock on the door. "My lord," said the attendant, "a young woman wishes to speak with you in the rooms downstairs."

When Lord Darcy entered the private sitting room, he saw Lady de Haut-Clocher. "My lady, what may I do for you?"

"Please, my lord, you must hear my story. Sir Jeremiah says it's foolishness, but...my lord, the apparition that the villagers all talk about? I believe I saw it, a few nights before the old baron died."

Lord Darcy leaned forward. "Tell me about it."

"I was on my way home from visiting one of the village spinners; it was dark, but I know the paths, and I fear no human here. But this was no human. It glowed a strange color, like a peach or a rose, and it made a terrible screeching noise."

"But it did not speak?"

"No, my lord. Only a high-pitched noise, like a strange bird. It ran down the path far ahead and then across the moor. I did not see it up close, and I'm glad I didn't."

"Do you have any magical Talent, my lady?"

"None at all, I fear." She rose. "I must return home before Sir Jeremiah wonders what became of me."

"Would you like me to escort you?"

She shook her head. "We live nearby, and Master Henry said there would be no fog tonight."

* * *

The next morning, Lord Darcy and Master Sean visited several people who had reported seeing the apparition. All agreed that it was a giant figure, like an enormous four-legged beast, glowing orange or pink, and that it had spoken. Most said that its voice had been the voice of the old baron. There were rumors that the spectre had stolen meat from smokehouses and porches, had even attacked people, but no one who had seen it actually admitted to being attacked themselves. No one, however, had dared to approach it, and there was no consistency to where and when it appeared, other than that it was only seen by night. It had been seen all over Dartmoor, on foggy nights and clear, moonlit and moonless.

One old woman, spinning yarn as she spoke to the two men, even said that she had seen it cross the churchyard. "And what cursed spirit'd be so strong to pass over holy ground? A messenger from God it is, or a sad ghost, or else a demon so strong as to destroy us all. I make my confession to Father David every day now; best to be prepared."

"A demon," Master Sean said after they left her to her wheel, "powerful or not, wouldn't pass over a churchyard without strong compulsion, and I feel certain Father David would have noticed an evil spirit around his own church. And a messenger from God? Either more subtle or more obvious, but not this halfway business of appearing in the distance and speaking with a dead man's voice."

"Ghost, then?"

"The description's wrong. I've seen ghosts, and I can assure you, me lord, they glow neither orange nor pink."

When they returned to the inn, Damoselle Mary was waiting in the sitting room. "I'm sorry to trouble you, but may I speak with you both for a few minutes?"

"Certainly, Damoselle Mary."

She took a deep breath. "You know that I attended school in London for two years. During the holidays, since travel back to New England was out of the question, the late baron kindly allowed me to stay here at the castle." She smiled winningly. "Of course I know now that it was not _entirely_ appropriate, as he was an unmarried man, but Sir Jeremiah and Lady de Haut-Clocher stayed at the house as well, so appearances were satisfied. I spent a great deal of time with my cousin, and while I cannot claim to know him as a lifelong friend would, I believe I did know his character.

"The baron loved the moor. He knew it like he knew his own home. I've seen him bend and smell the ground, that he might be able to navigate the moor blind. And I do not exaggerate. One night he was walking with me after a dinner when a fog came in. I couldn't see more than a handspan in front of my face, couldn't see him when he was two feet away, couldn't see his dog right in front of us, but he knew the land so well, he was still able to lead me back to Dartmoor Castle. I cannot believe -- I _will not_ believe that he would be so turned about by fog that he would fall over that cliff by accident."

"This is very interesting, Damoselle Mary. Though it was some years ago that you were here; is it not possible that age may have blunted the baron's senses?"

"Not that many years, my lord; Michael and I spent a month here in spring of last year." She looked down, clearly marshalling her emotions. "My cousin was still as hale and strong as I remembered, still able to walk safely across the moor in all light and weather. He knew the rocks; he knew the mires. He could not have fallen over that cliff by accident if he were walking."

Lord Darcy remembered the notes from Sir Gerald's report. He turned to Master Sean. "Master Sean, perhaps we should see the site for ourselves. No evidence will remain, of course, but it will help me to compare with Sir Gerald's notes."

"I know the way," Damoselle Mary said. "May I accompany you? Or would that interfere with your work?"

"Six months after the death, there is no reason to keep you away; we will be happy to have your company."

The Damoselle's company was indeed pleasant. She spoke intelligently on many topics -- the geography and botany of the moor, her brother's plans for government, her studies under Mother Eloise. She also, with a wicked grin, told stories from her latest visit to London; nothing too scandalous, but all quite entertaining.

They walked up a slope towards an outcropping of rock. The edge was obvious during daylight, but of course it had been a moonless night when the old baron had died.

Lord Darcy consulted Sir Gerald's notes, then climbed carefully down and around to the bottom of the drop. "He was found about here. His neck was broken in the fall, and he died instantly. No footprints were found around him, and only his own on the muddy part of the path." He searched through the grasses, but as he expected, he discovered nothing.

When he returned to the top of the cliff, however, Master Sean and Damoselle Mary were examining a small object. "This was caught between the rocks over here, me lord," Master Sean said. "The Damoselle and I both sensed the spell."

It was a wooden box, perhaps one inch on each side. On one side a thin paper stretched across the opening and was covered by a light mesh. Lord Darcy handed it back to Master Sean. "What do you make of it?"

"Enchanted, certainly. But the spell's purpose is unclear, and whoever made this -- it's a strong spell, me lord, which means a powerful sorceror."

"More powerful than you?"

Master Sean grinned. "Ask me again tonight after I've wrestled with his work."

* * *

Lord Darcy left Master Sean alone in their room to work uninterrupted; he asked the innkeeper for permission to place a teleson call to Exeter, and ten minutes later he was speaking to Sir Gerald. "You are recovering well, I hope?"

"Getting there, my lord. Thank you for taking this case."

"No trouble at all, Sir Gerald. I did have one question about your notes on the old baron's death, though. You said that there were no footprints other than the baron's. Did you actually mean no footprints at all, or merely no human footprints?"

There were several seconds of silence, and then Sir Gerald swore. "My uncle will disown me for that. Yes, canine prints were found on the path; from the size I'd assume a dog, though a wolf ain't out of the question. How did you know?"

"I didn't; I merely suspected. Thank you, Sir Gerald; I won't disturb you further."

The sun was still over the horizon, and Master Sean would be busy for some time, so Lord Darcy walked the quarter mile to the castle.

The baron came down to greet him a minute after Lord Darcy was admitted. "Can I do anything for you, my lord?"

"Yes, actually; I would like to consult some of the family records, and I wondered where the archives would be stored."

"Second floor, I believe, beyond the Rose Room on the right wing."

Unfortunately, Lord Darcy took a wrong turning and found himself in the middle of the steward's offices. _That does it,_ he thought. _I am going to learn the layout of every castle in the Empire so I never have this problem again._

A door opened. "Are you lost, my lord?" The Damoselle Mary, a smudge of ink on her right hand, smiled at him.

"I fear that I am, Damoselle. Would you kindly direct me to the archive room?"

"Of course. Around this corner, and all the way down the next hallway; it is on the left, third room from the end."

"You are hard at work yourself, I see."

She glanced at her hands and laughed. "Only helping with some correspondence; the long time without a baron has left the estate in some disorder. I told Michael he needs to marry soon so as to have an assistant in his work."

"He is a fine man, and I am sure he will have no trouble meeting young women of appropriate intelligence and skill."

The Damoselle Mary shook her head. "So far, the only woman who has caught his attention has been married. But perhaps she has a sister."

"Perhaps. I presume your own studies will prevent your assisting him for long."

"My own studies? If I were of greater skill in magic, I could justify neglecting the needs of the barony for my studies. But when I weigh my limited abilities against what is needed here, the choice is clear. I must help my brother, at least for a time." She smiled ruefully. "I am sure I shall find some time to practice my skills; as a Sensitive, I can learn much from the many people I will certainly have to interact with. In the meantime, I won't detain you further from your own duties."

The archive room was well organized, and Lord Darcy was quickly able to find the records he was looking for. _Well,_ he thought. _Motive is clear; now for method and opportunity._

He took his leave of the baron and departed from the castle. It was not full dark yet, but the light was rapidly fading as he hurried along the path.

Then a voice came from his right. "Help me! Come here!"

Lord Darcy paused. Who was that? "Where are you?"

"Help! Come here!"

"Who is that?"

The voice fell silent. Carefully, Lord Darcy stepped off the path and walked towards the sound.

He was not careful enough. Suddenly he stepped into mud and lost his footing. _No,_ he realized as he tried to rise, _not mud; mire, deep mire._

Lord Darcy spread his arms and forced himself not to struggle, so as not to sink any faster. The strange cries had stopped; another victim of the mire? Something bumped against his right hand, and Lord Darcy grasped it: a cube, the size of the box they had found at the outcropping. In spite of his predicament, he felt a surge of satisfaction -- he now _knew_ what had happened to the old baron and how it had been done, and he had narrowed down _who_.

If, of course, he survived to find the remaining needed evidence.

He reached toward the solid ground, to no avail; the mire inexorably sucked him down. _Lady Darcy's little boy is going to meet a messy end,_ he thought, _but not for lack of effort._

Then he heard the voices, saw the lantern. "This way, Master Sean. Tread carefully; we're on the edge of Wagon Mire, and I fear...."

"Master Sean! Damoselle Mary!" Lord Darcy called.

Soon the two were at the edge of the mire. The Damoselle held up the lantern as Master Sean set up a brazier. Master Sean said, "I'll only be a few minutes, me lord. I did the preliminary spells the first night we were here."

Lord Darcy said nothing as Master Sean started the fire in the brazier and murmured some words. It is not wise to disturb a magician at work, even when one is about to perish in a bog.

It was less than a minute, though, before Master Sean finished. "I knew about the mire, and I thought, best to be prepared." He flung a handful of powder into the mire by Lord Darcy. "This spell will separate the water from the plant matter immersed in it; it won't last long, though. Keep your face up for just another minute, and when the bog separates, move quickly."

Lord Darcy could already feel the movement against his sides -- dirt moving downward, water flowing up. Soon there was a solid mass beneath his feet; he stepped forward, and forward again, and then the Damoselle was helping him scramble up to the more solid ground, heedless of the water splashing her skirt.

Once Lord Darcy was standing, Master Sean extinguished the brazier, and the bog suddenly bubbled as water and plant matter intermixed again. Master Sean shook his head. "It's lucky you are, me lord, that Damoselle Mary made a teleson call to the inn to make sure you'd arrived safely. When you didn't show, I called her and we met halfway."

"But how did you know where I was?"

The Damoselle Mary smiled slightly. "It is my Talent, my lord. It is not strong enough that I can track a stranger as a scenthound would, but there are a few people whom I am able to find no matter where they are."

"I am most fortunate to be among that select few, then."

The three went together to the inn, and the Damoselle Mary ordered a carriage to take her back to the castle. After Lord Darcy had bathed and was resting in their room, Master Sean said, "In case you wondered, her Talent is genuine. Can't rule out the possibility that she's involved, though."

"We can't rule it out, no, but even if she were, she would have to have an accomplice -- remember that the old baron's death and the first sightings of the spectre precede her arrival in England."

Master Sean looked closely at Lord Darcy. "And you are sure she's innocent, and you think you know who the actual criminal is."

"When I wrote to Rouen, I asked Sir Eliot to research a couple matters; if he finds what I think he will, that will narrow it down greatly. And I plan to pay a visit to Sir Jeremiah de Haut-Clocher tomorrow; that will narrow it further."

* * *

Sir Jeremiah and Lady de Haut-Clocher were in the sitting room when Lord Darcy arrived at their house. "Good afternoon, Lord Darcy," Lady de Haut-Clocher said. "We're very glad to see that you are well. You were not harmed in the mire, I hope?"

"Nothing that could not be ameliorated by Father David and the local laundress." He looked about the room. It was what one would expect of a schoolmaster's home -- filled with books. Literature, history, science, biography, botany, music, stacks of notebooks, and what seemed like hundreds of books on geology. "Sir Jeremiah, you are an enthusiast of geology, I understand," said Lord Darcy.

"I am, and Dartmoor is one of the best places in the Empire to study rock formations. Though someday I hope to see the Antisuyo in New France, and there are stories of a great canyon in the west of New England.... Sarah, my dear, why are you letting me bore Lord Darcy?"

"I am not bored at all," said Lord Darcy, "and indeed, I would be delighted to have you show me about the moor one day. But I came here with another purpose. The old baron, of course, dined with you on the night of his death. I am sorry to trouble you with painful memories, but can you recall, was there anything unusual about that night?"

Sir Jeremiah sighed. "Remembering Charles will never be trouble to me. He loved this land so much; he often brought me interesting rocks and would show me where he had found them. But I'm afraid after so long I can tell you nothing about that dinner. He seemed his normal self; he was in good spirits...."

Lady de Haut-Clocher suddenly said, "Except for Buttermilk's disappearance."

"That's true, my dear. His dog Buttermilk had gone missing the day before, and he was quite sorry about that. 'He was a good dog,' Charles told me, 'and careful of his footing, but I'm afraid he finally explored too far.' Waiting for his master at the gates of Heaven, I'm sure, if dogs are allowed so near." Sir Jeremiah chuckled sadly. "I'd almost believe the apparition was Charles's ghost if it'd been seen with a dog; he'd have told St. Peter that if his dog wasn't welcome, then neither was he."

"Would the dog have accepted a new master after the baron's death, do you think?"

"Possibly. Master Henry would certainly have taken him in, so possibly some family out on the moor found him. But anyone who knew the baron knew Buttermilk, so unless the poor dog wandered away from Dartmoor entirely...." He shook his head. "But no, other than the dog's absence, there was nothing unusual about Charles that night."

"I shall not disturb you further, then. Thank you very much for your help."

"A moment, my lord," said Lady de Haut-Clocher. "If it is not inappropriate to give this invitation after what we have discussed.... We are having a dinner and card party tomorrow night, in honor of the new baron; would you and Master Sean be willing to join us?"

"Thank you, but I fear that our work will prevent us from attending the dinner, though perhaps we will be able to pay our respects later in the evening. Good day, Sir Jeremiah, my lady."

When Lord Darcy returned to the inn, he found a message from Rouen with the information he had requested. "Perfect", he said to Master Sean. "We have most of the case in hand; we need only one more piece of evidence, and if all goes well tomorrow night, we shall have it."

* * *

The next morning, Lord Darcy went to Dartmoor Castle. When he arrived, he saw the Damoselle Mary riding up at a fast pace; she halted the horse and jumped down, pink-cheeked and laughing. "My brother has a fine stable indeed, and with the paperwork ahead today, I needed the exercise. Today I find out whether we have the funds to hire the workers needed to drain the bog south of the church; I rode out to see it, and I am astounded by its extent. Had I only known what glamor surrounded the duties of a baron, I would have begged my cousin to let me live here earlier."

Lord Darcy smiled back at her, and felt the faintest tinge of regret for what could never be. "Damoselle, may we speak privately for a minute? Master Sean and I shall need your aid tonight."

By the time he had finished explaining, the smile had faded from her face. "Yes, my lord, I will gladly help. My brother is one of the people who I can track if I make the effort, and certainly if he is harmed or...or if he dies, I will know." She looked away. "Even with my weak Talent, even from New England, I knew when my cousin had died. I will surely know for my brother."

"If all goes well, it will not come to that. I'll speak with him before I leave."

He found the baron in the library, a copy of _The Watsons_ open in his lap. "A fine novel," Lord Darcy said.

"Yes, I've always liked alternate histories. What would the world be like if Richard the Lion-Hearted _had_ died at Cadiz; what if King Casimir had won the War of '39; that sort of thing." He closed the book. "I should be inventorying these, but some books are hard to resist. Anyway, what can I do for you?"

"My lord," Lord Darcy said, "you did accept Sir Jeremiah's dinner invitation for tonight, correct?"

"Yes," the baron replied, looking puzzled. "Should I not attend?"

"No, no, it's an excellent idea that you go. But in that case, I ask you to do exactly as I tell you."

"Of course, my lord." He looked expectantly at Lord Darcy.

"Your sister will be indisposed this evening, and Master Sean and myself will have work to do, so you will go to the dinner alone. You will almost certainly have to walk home in the dark. No matter what you see, no matter what happens, stay on the path, and do not run."

The baron smiled gamely, clearly hiding his nervousness. "It's to be an adventure then, is it?"

"One that will bring justice for your cousin's death. Can I rely on you?"

"I shall do my best, Lord Darcy."

* * *

That night, Lord Darcy, Master Sean, and the Damoselle Mary took up their station on the path halfway between Sir Jeremiah's house and the castle.

It was a chilly night, but fog was not expected before two in the morning. They waited silently, listening.

At last, they heard footsteps along the path, and the baron singing a tune from a popular opera. The Damoselle Mary tensed but made no sound.

And then further away, there was the sound of running feet and a voice that Lord Darcy had heard in the swamp. "Come here! Come here, you!"

The baron turned. "Who is it?"

And over the rise came the spectre.

The sight chilled even Lord Darcy for a moment. A giant fanged creature, glowing an eerie pinkish orange, and speaking in a man's voice.

The baron faltered and started to back away, then turned and ran. _Damn!_ thought Lord Darcy. The spectre gave chase.

And the Damoselle Mary jumped up and shouted. "Michael! It's an illusion! Stand and face it!"

He halted, turned, gasped as the apparition struck him.

And then he laughed, and laughed, and gasped hysterically. "First I've heard of a demon that licks your hand!"

Master Sean ran forward and touched the air around the apparition with a foot-long metallic stick. The glowing creature vanished, replaced by a bedraggled dog, wagging its tail.

Damoselle Mary hurried up to the baron and embraced him, then knelt by the dog. "Why, this is Buttermilk! Our cousin's dog; the one that disappeared when he died."

As the dog licked her hands, Master Sean felt carefully at the dog's collar and unfastened it, bringing it over to Lord Darcy. "Here you go, me lord."

Attached to the collar was another box, like the one from the cliff and from the mire.

"You can identify his work, I assume?" Lord Darcy said.

"Easily now."

"Excellent." Lord Darcy turned to the baron and the Damoselle Mary. "May I impose on the two of you for the use of one of your parlors tomorrow morning? We now have the information needed to arrest the person behind the murder of Charles de Beaufort, Baron Dartmoor."

The young baron's mouth opened and closed; it was Damoselle Mary who said, "We would be delighted, my lord."

* * *

Lord Darcy looked around the room. All the people who had been asked to attend were present: Baron Dartmoor, Damoselle Mary, Sir Jeremiah and Lady de Haut-Clocher, Master Henry, and Father David, as well as the head of the Dartmoor Castle guard, Captain Jacob Church.

"I believe," Lord Darcy said to the assembled company, "that I can now tell you the cause of the apparition. It requires me, however, to go back into the history of the family de Beaufort."

"At the turn of the century, there were three brothers de Beaufort. The oldest, Richard, was Baron Dartmoor and the father of Charles. The middle brother, James, married twice and had a son by each wife, Thomas and Raymond. Thomas travelled the world for many years, until late in life he met the Damoselle Violet Norton in New England; they married and had two children, Michael and Mary, and he lived there with her until his death. The youngest brother, Jeremiah, was estranged from his family and disappeared from their notice. He eventually settled in Marsaille and married, producing a son also named Jeremiah." Out of the corner of his eye, he saw both Sir Jeremiah and Lady de Haut-Clocher tense up.

He continued calmly, "While they died when he was still a youth, they left enough money to provide him a good education. The younger Jeremiah attended university and became a skilled schoolteacher; he married a widow and reared her daughter as his own, even after his wife's death.

"But he had grown interested in magic, and was unwilling to undergo the appropriate training and licensing. Oh, he was hardly practicing black magic; his methods and rites were completely orthodox. Be that as may be, the laws regulating the practice of magic exist for the protection of all in the Empire, and eventually he was caught, tried, and convicted. He gave up the practice of magic, changed his name and that of his stepdaughter, and left Marsaille, returning to England and ultimately to the county of his father's birth."

The baron looked at Sir Jeremiah and Lady de Haut-Clocher. "You don't mean...."

Sir Jeremiah looked furious. "Yes, I was born Jeremiah de Beaufort. But my wife's name is indeed Sarah."

"True. My colleague in Rouen found the marriage license for Jeremiah de Beaufort and Sarah Jeanne Ferronier, and according to that license, your wife was born in 1910."

Sir Jeremiah slumped back in his chair. Lady de Haut-Clocher said, "It is true. I am his step-daughter, and he has always treated me honorably and as his own child. When he was first offered a position at a school in England, they would allow his wife to live with him but not his child, so we decided that I should pretend to be his wife."

"But I am not responsible for this spectre," Sir Jeremiah said. "I have given up the practice of magic, and even the theory of it."

Lord Darcy nodded. "I would say, more accurately, that you bear no guilt for the spectre, though it was your research that was used to create it."

Sir Jeremiah looked puzzled. The man Lord Darcy knew to be guilty kept a calm expression, and the others in the room had varying expressions of expectancy or bewilderment; Damoselle Mary met Lord Darcy's eyes and smiled slightly, as if to encourage him.

"We have long had spells of illusion, acting on the brain to make people think they see objects that are not there. We have also spells to record sounds; the King's Messengers sometimes have this spell administered to them, so that they may speak with the voice and words of the King. But again, this spell works on the mind of the messenger.

"You, Sir Jeremiah, believed that it was possible to have a spell that was attached to an object, and that produced a sound, a genuine sound, without the further work of the hearer's mind."

"Yes," Sir Jeremiah said. "It would be much like the way the human eardrum vibrates to transmit sounds into our ears; what if a similar vibrating membrane was used to project sound out into the world?"

"And someone learned of your research. Perhaps you discussed it with him; perhaps he read your notebooks without your knowledge. But for that, I must return to the de Beaufort family tree, to James de Beaufort and Raymond, his son by his second wife.

"This second marriage did not prosper, and eventually she left James de Beaufort, taking their son with her and rearing him under her father's surname. She had money in her own right, enough again for a good education for her son, and as Raymond like his cousin showed strong signs of the Talent, he was apprenticed as a magician and eventually achieved Mastery.

"Raymond's mother told him, of course, that he was the grandson of a baron and in line for the barony. And gradually, the desire for power twisted his heart. He wanted the barony -- not for the political power, only for the income it would give him, the power to work on his own research."

"That makes no sense," Damoselle Mary said. "The demands on his time and energy would leave him hardly enough time to read, let alone to research." The baron nodded in agreement.

"Many, unfortunately have illusions about the demands of governance. Raymond took a position in the area, met the old baron, and gradually won his friendship. And knowing him so well, and knowing that the baron's health was so good that he would likely live at least another twenty or thirty years, he sought a way to kill the baron while making it look like an accident."

By now, most of the people in the room seemed to at least suspect who Lord Darcy was talking about, and the man himself appeared tense but resigned.

"He found it in Sir Jeremiah's research, and clearly did further work himself to perfect the spells. Using a device like this," Lord Darcy said, holding up the wooden cube with the paper membrane, "and presumably some additional spells, he was able to produce sounds. His first efforts were limited; the device only produced an eerie noise. But combined with an illusion spell, that would be enough to frighten someone.

"And he found the perfect way to carry the illusion: cast it on the old baron's dog.

"Imagine the scene: Charles de Beaufort leaves his friend Sir Jeremiah's house and walks down the path to his home. But when he nears his home, his dog, under an illusion and with one of these cubes attached to his collar, is released. And what will any dog do when it knows its master is near? Of courese the dog ran toward him. And the baron saw a supernatural creature with a screeching voice approaching him; is it any surprise that he ran? or that he did not realize until too late where the edge of the rock was?"

"Then why," the Damoselle Mary asked, "do so many people say that the apparition spoke with the voice of the old baron?"

"This brings us to the second device. Producing sounds is impressive enough, but catching sounds in a device, as if one were recording words to paper? That would be more amazing still." He turned to the door. "Master Sean?"

Master Sean entered the room, accompanied by a county Armsman, holding another tiny box attached to a cone about an inch long. "We found it, me lord. An amazing piece of spellwork it is."

"Raymond de Beaufort must have mastered the recording device before he succeeded with the one to play the sounds back, for he recorded the voice of the old baron many times, usually calling his dog. Once he succeeded in causing the cubes to transmit sound, though, he practiced the illusion around Dartmoor, keeping the dog locked away by day and letting it run loose under the spells at night. And by the time the new baron arrived, he was ready to make a second attempt at killing a Baron Dartmoor, the last man remaining between himself and the barony. So close to the mire, he might have succeeded, if it were not for the baron's nerve and his sister's common sense. And if it were not for the loyalty of a dog, returning to his master's death place and losing one of the enchanted boxes on the rocks."

"Raymond Henry Lamar de Beaufort, what have you to say in your defense?"

Master Henry looked up at Lord Darcy. "Only this." And suddenly the room was filled with bright light, and when a few sharp words from Master Sean cleared the illusion, Master Henry was gone.

* * *

The Armsmen tracked Master Henry, of course, but did not catch up to him in time before the fog rose. In the morning, with the aid of tracking dogs, they were able to follow his trail to the edge of Wagon Mire and magically retrieve his remains; Master Henry had fallen to the same fate he had attempted to inflict upon the baron, and upon Lord Darcy.

* * *

"A pity it is," Master Sean said, shaking his head. "He had destroyed all his notes, and now we have nothing to work from except for Sir Jeremiah's preliminary research. Those spells would have been incredibly useful."

Lord Darcy folded up his letter to the Marquis of Exeter. "Well, we will simply have to send these devices to His Majesty's laboratories and see whether any of their magicians are able to reproduce the effect."

He went downstairs to give the letter to the hotel staff for posting, and ran into Damoselle Mary in the lobby. "Lord Darcy," she said, "may I speak to you privately about a personal matter?"

"Certainly; I am at your service."

In the private sitting room, the Damoselle Mary spoke. "When I was in school, one of my friends was the niece of the Duke of Cumberland, and I met him several times after I finished school. He has been courting me on my most recent visits to London, and now that I have left my grandmother's home, I suspect he means to make an offer of marriage. He is a worthy and honorable man; much older than I, but the blood of the Plantagenets is strong in him, and he is in excellent health and vigor. I admire and esteem him greatly, and I am sure that in time I would grow to love him. My question for you is, do I have any reason to dissuade him from such an offer before he makes it? To be precise, is there any possibility that I may have formed another attachment?"

Even a less astute man with any claim to the breeding of a gentleman would immediately have understood such a combination of delicacy and directness, and Lord Darcy was nothing if not astute.

"My damoselle, I have recently become the Chief Investigator for the Duke of Normandy. It is a demanding position, requiring much of my time and energy. It is very like a vocation to the priesthood, and though there is no rule forbidding it, I cannot in good conscience seek a wife. Especially since I love my work, and my heart could never be wholly hers."

"I see." She did not break their gaze. "Thank you for your honesty, my lord."

"I must confess, however, that if I _did_ wish to enter into the sacrament of marriage...."

She held up a hand. "My lord, I already know. Please do not say it."

He nodded. "Then I shall only say that I wish you well, that my friendship is yours, and that I look forward to our next meeting."

"The same, my lord. Entirely the same."

Lord Darcy watched for a minute as she walked away, then returned to the hotel room; if he and Master Sean took the 1:56 train, they would just make the day's last ferry to Rouen.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, this is a retelling of Doyle's "The Hound of the Baskervilles" in the Lord Darcy 'verse. Following the tradition of the Lord Darcy stories, there are at least six references in this fic to other fictional characters or people. How many did you catch?


End file.
